Fred went to his mother’s room, about which an agitated crowd had
already gathered, the two girls and their maid, and an anxious domestic
or two from downstairs, besides Mrs. Dalyell’s own maid, who was with
her mistress. Foggo stood outside on the staircase, anxious to know if
he should go for the doctor, and still more anxious to know what had
happened, for there was already a conviction in the house that it was
not mere illness which had produced that shriek which startled
everybody. Mrs. Dalyell was not the kind of woman to shriek from
physical pain, and there had been a whisper in the house that the
horseman had been heard in the avenue, which, naturally, was a
preparation for trouble. Fred, however, was not admitted till some time
later, of which the poor young fellow was glad: for he was in no
condition to meet his mother in the nervous and excited state in which
she must be, while he himself was so shaken and miserable from the same
cause. He went to his own room and endeavoured there to calm himself,
and thrust away the appalling question that was now before him. How
lately he had said to himself that his father’s previsions had all been
mistaken, and instead of having to take upon himself the anxieties and
cares of the head of the house, to break off his studies and turn his
thoughts to the grave side of life, he had only been more free, more
independent, than before, since he had succeeded his father as Dalyell
of Yalton. Ah! but who could have thought of this, this further chapter
of disaster, unimaginable, incurable, which would involve the name of
Dalyell of Yalton in dishonour and shame--the name his ancestors had
borne in credit and pride, the name that poverty and ruin could not have
stained, but which must now perish amid records of deceit and fraud.
Fred’s very heart seemed to shrink and wither up within him when he
thought of what he had now to do. It would be his to put the stamp of
shame upon that name--to expose the whole disgraceful story, the
dishonest means by which downfall had been staved off, only to fall more
dreadfully upon the unhappy and innocent now. No, he must not palter
with right and wrong, he must not allow any sentiment of pity either
for the criminal or for himself to steal in. The criminal! Now that Fred
had time to think, that criminal--whose very name he could not endure to
think of--whom he had denounced and disowned with such force and almost
hatred--had looked at him, oh, with such fatherly eyes! He had scarcely
said anything, not a word in his own defence. Fred felt that if he had
stayed another minute his courage would have failed him, and the old
dear familiar image would have regained its power. The criminal!--worse
than a fraudulent bankrupt, almost worse than a suicide, and yet so
like--oh, so like----! Oh, he must not think, he must not allow himself
to fail in his duty. In a week’s time--that was what he had said--to
give full time for that fugitive to escape, that he might not be taken
or injured, or brought to justice. In a week’s time! There must be no
paltering with duty. It was clear before him what he had to do.
And then there began to pluck as it were at the skirts of Fred’s mind
thoughts of what this thing was, of what it must have cost. Had not the
man died, had he not more than died? It was not suicide, but it was
worse. He had given his life while still a living man. Strange words
crept into Fred’s mind, which did not come there of themselves, as if
some one had thrown them into the surging sea of passion and pain which
was within him. Greater love hath no man than this. Oh, silence,
silence! these words were said of another, a greater--one Divine.
Greater love hath no man than this: they came back and back: as if they
could be applied to a man who was a sinner, who had committed a fraud,
and deceived his fellow men! Had he deceived them? Had he not died? Died
more terribly, more completely than the man in the family grave in
Yalton churchyard, who was not Robert Dalyell. Which would one choose if
one had to choose? Surely the home in the churchyard, the tablet on the
wall--and not the life of an outcast, the death in life of a man who had
no identity, who had neither name nor fame. Fred’s young soul was rent
asunder by these thoughts. There had been no relenting in him, no pity.
But now outraged nature avenged herself. Oh, how cruel he had been, how
harsh!--not a word of kindness in him, not a softening touch. And he
ought not to think of nature now, he ought not to be moved by kindness.
He ought to subdue all relenting. In a week’s time! He must set his
face like brass. He must think of nothing that could make him fail.
It was late when Fred was called to his mother, and he went down as
timid as a child called to an interview of which it knows nothing, but
that it must involve terrific consequences. He had looked at himself
anxiously in the glass before he obeyed the summons, wishing that he
knew some way of making himself look less pale, his eyes less excited.
The girls knew ways of doing this, Fred believed, but he did not know.
He plunged his head into cold water to relieve the heaviness and heat he
felt, as of something bursting from his forehead; and then he went
downstairs, slowly labouring to collect his thoughts to think what he
should say. Mrs. Dalyell was in bed, her head with the background of the
red curtains looking at the first glance almost ghastly, her face very
pale, her eyes excited like his own. She grasped him by both hands and
made him sit down by her. The candles were still burning, but a faint
glimmer of blue showed between the curtains. She kept holding his hand,
but it was a minute or two before she spoke.
“Fred, do you know if I said anything? What did I say? What did they
tell you? Did they say that I----?” She gasped for breath, and could not
finish the sentence, but did so with her eyes and with the pressure of
her hand.
“I heard nothing, mother, but that you fainted.”
She pressed his hand tightly again and said, “I didn’t faint. I let them
think so--to conceal--Though I was scarcely conscious of what I was
doing, I felt it gleam through me that to let them think I was
unconscious was best. But I never was unconscious for a moment,
Fred--you understand what I am saying?--nor was I asleep, nor could I
have been dreaming. You hear what I am saying, Fred?”
“Yes, mother: but don’t, for heaven’s sake, excite yourself; it may make
you ill again.”
“What will make me ill? I want you to understand. I’ve not been ill,
only--that they might have no suspicion. Fred, above all things I want
you to understand that I am in my full senses, meaning every word I
say.”
“Yes, mother,” he said, pressing her hand.
She renewed her grip upon it, as if she were holding fast to something
lest she should be carried away. “Well!” she said, with a long-drawn
breath. Then looking him fall in the eyes as if to defy
misunderstanding: “Fred,” she said, “I have seen your father!”
“Mother!” he cried.
“Hush--this was what I was afraid of--that you would think me out of my
senses. Look at me. I am not calm, perhaps, but I am as steady as you
are.” (That was not saying much; but absorbed in her own extraordinary
sensations, Mrs. Dalyell fortunately did not notice Fred.) “I was not
thinking of him, nor even questioning as I sometimes do. I was more
quiet than usual: when, just there, where the curtain is, I saw your
father!”
“You must have been over-excited, mother, though you did not know it. My
coming home and the girls’ talk--and all of us making ourselves
disagreeable--without knowing it your mind must have----”
“My mind was quite calm. I made allowance for you children. I could have
sympathised with you. But don’t go away with any such idea. I saw your
father--as plain as I ever saw him in my life.”
What could Fred say? He patted her hand to soothe her, and shook his
head gently; he could not trust himself to speak.
“It all passed in a moment,” she went on. “He said something. I feel
sure he used the word marriage, but I was too much startled to make out,
and I was so foolish as to give that cry. I can’t tell you what a
dreadful feeling came upon me. I am not a woman to scream, but I could
not help it. And he disappeared, and they all came rushing in.”
“It must have been an optical illusion, mother--that’s what they call
those sort of things. You were disturbed by all of us, and your
imagination got excited.”
“Don’t speak such nonsense to me. I saw your father as I see you. Fred,
that’s not half I’ve got to tell you.” She closed her fingers more and
more closely upon his hand, and drew him close to her. “He was changed,”
she said almost in a whisper. “He was not as he used to be.” She put her
face nearer to her son’s. “An apparition would have been nothing in
comparison. It would have been not wonderful, considering everything.
But this: Fred”--she drew him quite close and her fingers were upon his
hand like iron--“Fred, your father had grown a beard!”
“Mother!” he cried again.
“You think I’m mad, and I don’t wonder: but there’s more in what I say
than you think, Fred: a man who was dead could not do that. Fred, find
me words. I don’t know what to say. There is more in this than we know.”
They looked at each other, the eyes of the one shooting light and
meaning into those of the other. How could the boy stand the keen
scrutiny of his mother’s eyes? He faltered before her and tried to avert
them, but failed. At last he faltered, “Mother! I think your guess is
right!”
She seized him by the shoulder with her other hand and shook him in the
vehemence of her passion. “Have you known this all along? Have you known
and never said a word?”
“No,” he said; “how could you think it? Could I have been a party to a
fraud? But I saw him too--to-night.”
Mrs. Dalyell’s hands relaxed; she fell back upon her pillow, and,
covering her face with her hands, began to cry and moan. “Oh, how shall
I ever look him in the face! How shall I ever look him in the face!”
Fred was prepared for many things on his mother’s part. He was prepared
to see her burst into indignation like his own; he could have understood
her stern and angry, or he could have understood her grieved and
miserable. He could even have understood it--had she been unreasonably
and foolishly glad. But ashamed, asking how she could look him in the
face!--this was beyond the knowledge of her son. After a little she
calmed down and said with the echo of a sob, “We will have something to
forgive each other--on both sides.”
“Mother,” cried Fred, “do you realise all the difference it will make?”
She was silent for a moment, with a flush upon her face. “Oh, my dear,”
she cried, with a look of awe, “how can we ever be sufficiently thankful
that we knew in time!”
This was all she could think of, it seemed; and poor young Fred had to
return to his own troubled thoughts by himself without help from his
mother. She entertained, it would seem, no doubt as to her duty towards
her husband. The fraud did not weigh on her mind. He had come back--that
was all.